


Overqualified

by BlackQat



Category: Jackson Brodie - Fandom
Genre: Amanda Abbington role, Case Histories TV, Gen, Humor, Jason Isaacs role, Zawe Ashton role, jackson being jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackQat/pseuds/BlackQat
Summary: Jackson Brodie needs an Administrative Assistant. Badly.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	Overqualified

Jackson Brodie sat behind his desk, listening for the door of his office to open. He’d met several candidates for the office receptionist position. And though the pay was pretty decent, he hadn’t got many very eligible candidates. Of the four who’d been in and out today, one shuffled in, literally dragging her feet, and told him “Mum insisted I look for work,” to which he stood, smiled, escorted her back to the door and said, “Then you’d best get on with it, have a good day.”

Next was a woman with straight dark hair and a fringe, bright red lipstick, and brilliant blue eyes, wearing stilettos and a tight, wine-colored, low-necked dress, had flirted with him throughout the interview. “I’m very good with _book_ keeping,” she said, “And—” pitching her voice to a sultry low tone – “Answering _calls_.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “Telephone calls.”

“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?” And she lowered her chin a little to one side, looking out the corner of her eye at him. 

“-‘hem. What’s your experience working in an office.”

“I’ve had a few.”

He blinked. Surely his mind was going down the wrong road. “You’ve worked in different offices?”

She crossed her legs, ensuring that he got an eyeful of upper thigh. “Oh, yes.”

“What’s your computer experience?”

“I’m quite good with a camera, or a webcam. Oh, and as for bookkeeping, I regularly bill my clients over the internet. I often have to follow up with them.”

“And correspondence? Making reports?”

“Well ... here’s a sample of my writing.” She handed him a folder. Inside on pale pink paper was a logo featuring an embossed, shiny pink silhouette of a stiletto shoe with a bow at the back and the words:

_Aja’s Intimate Escapes_

_Adventures Limited Only by Your Imagination_

_Here you can enjoy whatever you desire. We can play it straight, we can role-play, we can play Sub/Dom._

_It’s up to you!_

_Call us any time, day or night._

And there was a telephone number, a cell number by the looks of it. He knew his eyebrows had gone up the moment he saw the logo. He tried to tame his face but it felt like his cheeks were hot. He was definitely feeling some blood flow to an area he was quite sure she specialized in.

 _Make sure your voice doesn’t crack._ “Erm ... very good. Well ... I’ll take this under consideration.”

She leaned in toward him, her charms on display. “It’s okay, I’m pretty comfortable financially. Really I was just hoping to network and increase my client base. Are you interested in services yourself?” She grinned, an honestly humorous grin. “A friend and she said you were quite nice when you worked for her. Saved her business. Might you have any referrals for me?”

He smiled a little. “My clients are not usually so well off financially. I doubt they could afford you.”

“Oh, but di _vorces_. Rich with possibilities for giving comfort.” 

“’hem. You’ll need to work out of your own office, then. Sorry, I can’t share a client list. I need someone for the actual job.” He looked around, files askew here and there. And he knew his outer office was a damned mess. “I wish you the best of luck, Aja.”

“Oh!” She laughed. “It’s Alice, really. Alice Jacobs. An exotic name is helpful in my line of work.” She extended her hand as she got up. “No need for you to stand. I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need help.”

He nodded up at her, imagining all the danger she could be in at any time in her line of work. “Take good care, Alice,” he said, and handed her his business card. “Please call me if you run into any trouble.” She stroked it with a crimson-tipped finger and smiled again.

“You too.” And she sauntered out so her hips swayed slowly.

The next candidate was an older, pear-shaped woman in dark blue tweed with half-glasses on. She looked around, frowning. “Isabel Jayne.” She briskly extended a hand, he stood and took it. She had a firm grip.

“Have a seat,” he invited.

“Oh, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get the lay of the land.” She walked around his office, eyeing the files piled on top of his file cabinet, and pointed to the reception area with her thumb. “I take it you haven’t had help for a while now. Quite a mess you have here.”

He smiled a little stiffly. “Yes, you can imagine that’s why I’m hiring a receptionist/clerk.”

“Oh, I can indeed.” She laughed, a little _Humph!_ and settled into the chair, knees together, hands clasped in her lap. Unclasping her tote, she got out her resume and passed it to him. The highlights:

_20 years, Royal Navy, retired with honors, Lieutenant Commander_

_Specialty, Administration_

... and so on. Jackson, having been an enlisted man, wasn’t sure he was ready for this, but she was quite competent in the area he needed.

She raised her eyebrows at him when he looked up.

“You seem a bit ... overqualified.”

“Oh yes, of course. I thought I could tide myself over for awhile until I open my patisserie.” She leaned forward confidingly. “When I retired I went to school to learn the art of French pastry. I got rather good at it. I’ve been baking part-time at a hotel, but that and my pension won’t quite cover the cost of renting a storefront and buying equipment and such. So if you can use a highly competent temporary, I’m your ‘man’!”

Jackson loved French pastry. “Hmm. I’m looking for someone permanent, but if I don’t find them, I’ll be in contact, is that all right?”

Her face fell a bit. “I could whip this office into shape sharpish. But I felt compelled to be honest; you have an honest face.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And I know you could get things into shape around here. But the filing and past due bills will give my new assistant a background in what I do here, so it’s important they do all of it. I appreciate your frankness.” He handed her a card. “When you do open your bakery, let me know.”

She stood up, looking a bit shaky, and he remembered something. “I think the police may have a temporary office position available. The hours might be too long for you to work part-time at the hotel kitchen though. A friend of mine said their office manager was on maternity leave.” He smiled. “And you’re used to working with all kinds, so I’m sure you’d be aces.” He scrawled down Louise’s number on the back of another card. “This is DCI Monroe, she’s an old friend” – oh how Louise would grimace – “and I believe she’ll be glad to meet you. As ex-military you won’t need much of a background check.”

“Oh! This is great, thanks awfully.”

“I think you’ll find the pay will be better than here, too. It can go thick and thin in the private investigations business. And when you open your bakery, you’ll have some ready-made clientele. Police love pastry.”

“All right then.” She smiled at him and gave him a firm nod.

He stood up and put out his hand. As they shook, he said “Best of luck. I’ll call DCI Monroe ahead of time.” He wrote down the address of the Mid-Lothian police headquarters. “I don’t know if you have to apply online or in person, but she’ll let you know. Best of luck, Ms. Jayne.”

“You too.” And she sailed out.

The next candidate was younger than any he’d seen yet, even Shuffle Girl, whose name he’d already forgotten. Red hair, freckles, green eyes, a big, chunky knee-length wool jumper, leggings, clompy boots, and, when they exchanged hellos, the thickest Scots accent he’d ever heard. And though he worked in Edinburgh, Jackson worked with people from all over the UK, so he had his doubts about her speaking to clients on the phone.

She handed him her resume. No job experience except working summers at ice cream and sandwich vans, and her spelling was atrocious. At least she’d taken the time to type it.

“What’s your name?”

She cocked her head at him. “Ih’s righ’ thare on th’ application.”

He held it up. “This is a resume, Peggy.”

She rolled her eyes then right away said, “Sorry.”

“Hmm. How old are you?”

“Eh-teen.” But as she said it her eyes flickered.

He tipped his chin down and looked out from under his brows. “Eighteen. Really?”

“Em, nae.” She shifted, nearly flounced with impatience in her seat. “Ah’m sixteen. Bu’ I need a job.”

“So, Peggy, I’m looking for a good speller. Someone who’s careful about what they produce. Someone who will listen, and be attentive, and file accurately. Do you keep books?”

“Some, Granny gives me a book every Christmas.”

He closed his eyes for a second, wanting not to laugh, she was looking for a job in earnest ... probably ...

“This position is for a good speller, a bookkeeper – that’s like an office accountant – and someone who can take down details from potential clients.” He looked down at her resume, such as it was. “Did you like your summer jobs at all?”

“’course, except there were never enough hours. I’d get home and my mum would give me hell until bedtime. I’d rather be worken’. I liked the customers, and fixing sandwiches and that. But I’m not good with maths really. Mum saw your ad and said I should come here, for some reason. She got fired, so she wants me to work. I told her I couldn’t work in an office. I just came here so I could tell her honestly that I did.”

From the look on her face he judged her schooling wasn’t the best and despaired for her. He was glad is daughter Marlee was in a school where she was actually getting a good education.

Fortunately he knew a place where she might get a job. “You need to polish your interview skills a bit, Peggy. But I just finished working for a lady who owns a restaurant and wants a new prep cook. You can chop veg and the like, right?”

“Well ... yeh.”

“Do you take direction well?” And he tipped his chin as he looked steadily at her: _tell me the truth_.

“Umm ... Yeh, if they’re nice about it. Mum’s just always shoutin’ at me.”

“I don’t think Ms Davie is a shouter. But she will expect you to listen and do as she shows you, and work hard.” He scribbled Deb Davie’s name and her restaurant’s name on the back of his card. “Show her this. I’ll give her a call in a while to let her know I’ve talked to you. Go see her about nine a.m. tomorrow. She’ll interview you, so sit up straight, look her in the eye, answer politely and be ready to put in a lot of time.”

“Thanks Mr Brodeh!” She looked hopeful, took his card, shook his hand, and left. Was that a bounce in her step?

.

He stretched and went to the outer office to make an espresso. _Better make those calls_ , he thought, sipping.

“DCI Monroe.”

“Louise, it’s Jackson.”

“And what favor can I do for you _this_ time, Jackson.” Her tone was tart but had a bit of affection in it, too. He didn’t know how that was possible, but it was.

“I had a former Navy administrative officer, Isabel Jayne, in for an interview. She’s looking for a temporary position. A lieutenant commander, retired with honors. She’s overqualified but I thought she might do well for, umm, who’s the one on maternity leave? Anyway, she’s going to be a great asset, I think, and she’s used to working with officers and enlisted.”

“Ohhh, bit of a martinet, is she? I don’t think you’d like _that_. Is that why she was ‘overqualified’?”

“No, I don’t pay well enough, at least not regularly. I don’t think she’d take shit from anyone any more than you do, Louise,” he said, smiling. “I hope it’s all right that I gave her your name. She knows there aren’t any guarantees. She’s not looking for a permanent place because she wants to open her own bakery. She’s just trying to save some money to do that.”

“All right, thanks. We’ve had a few applicants who weren’t the best.”

He made a sympathetic noise. “Me too.” He thought, and gave into hope, for just a moment. “Would you, emm ... like to have dinner sometime?”

“Thanks, but I’m ...” She sighed, happily, he thought.

_Oh._

“... I’m dating someone. A veterinarian. I took Peanut in and we hit it off.”

 _Good steady income,_ he thought. _And likely, free feline care ... don’t think catty, Brodie_. “’hem. Best to you both, then.”

“Lovely chatting with you, Jackson. Thanks for the referral.”

_I should have known. She’s always chipper with me when she’s dating._

He called Deb, who was just done serving lunch, but she had only a minute to talk before dinner prep. Like him she had worked in the Oxbridge area of England, and they had an old joke between them. She listened to the story of Peggy, and said, “I’ll give her careful consideration, Jackson. She won’t be an eye-roller will she?”

“I can’t say really. I told her to behave and to listen to you. And unlike her mum, from the sound of it, _you’re_ nice, so I think it may be all right. Besides, when she hears how posh you are, I’m sure she’ll take note of everything you say.”

Deb laughed. “Oh we’re posh all right, you and me. Take care, mate.”

.

He was expecting his next interviewee in about 10 minutes. But the door to Reception opened and he heard an English voice, London accent he thought. “Mr Brodie?”

“Come in,” he called, standing up.

When she walked in he was struck by her elegance, reminding him of a model he had dated. She wore a long-sleeved, tailored dress, a stylishly wrapped pashmina, fashionable high-heeled shoes and carried a quality leather tote. The dress fit her curves.

He felt courtly, walking around the desk to gesture at the guest chair. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks.” She was studying him as he was her.

She was a woman of color, light-complected. She glowed with good health and had a lovely face. Her dark brown hair was loosely curly, and her dark eyes shone with intelligence as she assessed him. He sensed capability, the same kind that Lieutenant Commander Jayne [ret.] had emanated.

“You need help. I’m Deborah Arnold.” She put her resume on his desk. And looked up at him.

He was still standing by her chair like an idiot. “Jackson Brodie.” He offered his hand; she shook it, firmly, then sat straight in the chair, looking out the window behind his desk.

“How do you ignore that view every day?”

He shrugged. “I do like to look out moodily like a mystery detective,” he joked. “And give my eyes a break from the laptop.”

Her smile was brief in response; polite.

_She may have another interview, man, get on with it._

He picked up her resume. Too short, he thought at first, then realised she’d been in school and college, working her way through a degree in Business with a minor in Fashion Design. She had graduated two years ago. According to the accompanying letter of recommendation, Deborah was “an expert in bookkeeping, accounts, computer software applications, correspondence and keeping things running smoothly at a most difficult time.”She had been the personal assistant to the owner of a fashion house which had quite recently filed for bankruptcy.

This last he knew because he had investigated the firm’s vice president, who’d been embezzling and having it on with the boss’s husband. A nasty case, broken hearts all round, a partner who couldn’t believe her best mate had destroyed the business and their friendship, a marriage thus broken, and dozens of people potentially out of work.

“I left the sinking ship,” she said. Even her voice was attractive, not quite husky, but in a lowish range. “You investigated Zoe a few months ago.”

He knew why she looked familiar now, she had printed a copy of the computer account books for him. They had exchanged a mutual look of frustration and pity as she handed it over. “Ah. I did. It’s too bad. Are they going to hang in?”

Ms Arnold tilted her head. “Maybe. Padme’s downsizing. She thought I should leave before the worst happened so I decided to go. The angst was worse than finding a new job. People in a constant panic.” She flapped an elegant hand. “Bad vibes.”

Padme was the partner who’d been twice screwed over.

“Sorry to hear that. How do you feel about working with a lone investigator?”

“Not sure at the moment. Do you mind if I have a look around?” She’d stood up, looking around his office, her eyes narrowed in assessment.

“Go ahead. Can I get you coffee, or tea?”

“No, thanks.” She was already out in the reception area, opening file drawers, desk drawers.

He heard a muttered, “God, what a mess.”

He came out of his office to see her sitting at the desk, looking at “Receivables” on the desktop computer. She looked from it, to him. “You could do with a new one.”

Jackson nodded, chagrined, “Need to collect on a few accounts first.”

“So I see. Will that be up to me then?”

“You could phone them first, maybe. But not the slippery ones.”

“’Slippery ones’? Oh, this is going to be a treat.” She seemed to relish the challenge. 

“So you’ve decided you’re working here.” He was amused.

“You need me.” She picked up a stack of files and rapped the edges on the desk with a loud clack and started going through them, fishing a hand through her tote to find, and don, a pair of glasses. She looked over the frames at him. “... very badly. I want a salary, not wages.” She grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a figure on it. He raised his eyebrows but thought he was in good hands, so he’d do his best to afford her.

“Work isn’t always steady.”

She gestured at the accounting screen on the computer. “I think you can save enough of a percentage to keep me on.”

She was a force of nature, this one.

“Very well, Deb. You’re hired. Call me Jackson.”

She smiled, a slightly arch or sarcastic smile, he couldn’t quite tell yet.

“Call me Deb _orah_.”


End file.
